A new, old poem, that has even more meaning, for me, now

SONG

Just before dawn,

                              the dense, damp

Morning crept, chilly

                                and comforting

Into our window, waiting

                                      for the wistful sun.

The trees, terrible innocence,

                                               gathered trembling starlight,

Lined it along limbs

                               furrowed with larks,

Or maybe mockingbirds,

                                       heralding morning.

Breathing the slow and silky light,

                                                       the slumbering fields

Awaken, garnished and gleaming,

                                                        in dew’s last glow.

From the window, watching

                                             the world’s new song,

We learn by listening

                                  to the lovely blue

Light, blue mountains murmuring,

                                                      and meandering through

Our love’s dreamings and doings,

                                                       our destinies all entwined.

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Labor Day

Are truly worthy images so difficult to understand and assimilate that they intimidate viewers, make them feel uncomfortable or dumb? A great image is hard work! One has to be willing and able to be deeply affected, and this is both feared and longed for. Intellectually people crave a mystical experience; they read about it, or see an imagined re-creation on video, and desire to be affected (changed?) in some way. But this has to do with the perception of what it might be like, i.e., will it make you feel good? My own experience with this craving started out in a similar manner. What I ended up finding out was that anything that truly affected me, changed me in a subtle but permanent way. Then I had to re evaluate myself in relation to this. My perception had an added dimension that forced me to look at everything differently. This is challenging. It's so much easier just to fall back on the familiar, what you are comfortable with. A real change in perception means that you cannot go back to an old way of thinking or conducting yourself, because it is no longer honest. Integrity will force you over the edge. Then what? Relationships, desires, personal philosophy; in short, everything has to be re evaluated and your position in life, your participation, undergoes a shift in varying degrees. 

Or you can just think about it.

 Perhaps there will be a point that you will realize that everything is different, you have no choice. Sometimes this is a relief; you are forced into it. More often, this is a struggle, an usually an unpleasant one. Why step off of a cliff and go into a free fall if you don't think you have to? Why leave the comfort of the familiar? True change means that you cannot always act and think the way you used to, and this is difficult and time consuming. If you are unwilling, it's also an energy suck. Your basic identity is challenged, how you orient yourself in the world is constantly called into question. Who am I? Have I ever really known? Or did I just use the familiar trappings, fit in with the general consensus, and build my "self" based on what is popular and considered normal?

Being conscious is a concern that never stops. What are the consequences of my every thought, every action? This has created a life far more interesting than it sounds. OK, so I am not a College Professor, but what am I? A photographer? An artist, writer, worker, traveler, wanderer, a yogini? I just listed everything I am, and there is more than that. So how do I identify myself these days? By just being. Every moment is an adventure. Each day is engaged in the work of being conscious. No longer a pawn, I am a seeker. A finder.

This is the best that I can be.

Now back to the challenge of worthy images.

The physical sensation is similar to vertigo. Spinning, dizzy, my mind shuts off in favor of an unconditioned response. A body high, not unlike a sudden awareness of danger, a threat, takes precedence over rational thinking. Sound falls away. There is only an intake of breath. Often there is a buzzing, far off, directionless. A bell ringing, clanging from the inside, or a chill spreading, the hair on my arms stands at attention.

I cannot speak.

Slowly the world regains its former place, and the real work begins; what just happened? 

What am I made of that just turned into a vital receptor?

 Of what?

There is never a concrete answer that I can call a foundation, so what/where is an orientation point?

Is there such a thing?

 Does it matter? 

I feel different, but how? 

What has this artwork done to me? 

All of the known definable positions are useless, but the mind will cling on to some concrete nests and start building a criteria to explain. The mind wants to know, the body is more comfortable in the sensation. Demands sneak back in, jettisoning the little miracle into the noisy background. Self awareness in terms of public space asks "Did I just do something weird?" 

"Did I make a noise?" 

This is fleeting because I just don't care.

Hallelujah, art has found me today.

Now that's work.

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Speaking the Visible

It is here we must begin the breaking.

The bones of hills lay dark against the sky

through trees, and we, our branches filled

with sudden birds, twitter in the rusty

light. We murmur through the tender greening

of quiet fields, rippling in hill shadow,

tearing into another form of blue.

And if we make the world in just one word,

what shall we say it is, that called us here?

Within the light of many suns, of stars

too distant to believe, we clutch our loss

as though we have no choice; though love unbound

flies freely. And in the wake of passion

where is it to go, this bird, this third voice

between us, this one always calling we?

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LEH

The windows alive

and the cold pouring out of the soft

light

remind me of the day I saw you climbing over the mountain,

bringing snow, 

and rain,

and thunder like a drum.

A heart’s drum; stretched tight and tuned by the coming and going

of the monsoon,

and you.

The dun peaks crowded with dust that

settles on my face, my hands,

clash themselves with the pale blue

distance,

and the farther, higher peaks,

covered with last years’ snow.

A dark misshapen wraith I mistook for an animal, some animal,

a yak,

or a Yeti,

proves to be you, grasping down the uncertain trail

that will lead you here,

to wherever I am.

All winter, I waited.

Hot in the belief that you would

return,

I kept to my faith

my not knowing,

my hope.

I couldn’t tell if I still wanted you.

But now, with throat stretched tight

my uplifted head,

the wind still cold in early Spring,

I know that if you send word,

I will go.

Past the gompas,

the white stupas that line the ringing air,

the ragged prayer flags pointing everywhere and nowhere,

I will climb carefully,

not daring to look down.

I will hear your broken footsteps,

tracing the path through the broken

boulders,

the chorten,

the ancient stones that will always worship the sky;

I will hear you coming

and I will meet you on Khardung La.

 

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VARANASI

There is nothing that prepares you for Varanasi. Except within either memory or imagination, neither of which is fully reliable, this city defies any conventional description. Formerly known as Benares, it is the holiest of the sacred cities in Hinduism, and serves as a major hub for religious belief. In the sacred Vedic Sanskrit hymns, the Rigveda, the city was called Kashi, "to shine"; The City of Light. Renowned as a place for learning, it is also thought to be where Buddha presented his first sermon (after enlightenment), in nearby Sarnath. Founded by Shiva, according to Hindu mythology, it is part of the Sapta Puri, one of the seven Holy cities that can give liberation. It is auspicious to die here, and many make arrangements to be cremated along the bank of the Ganges. Temples, shrines, mosques, and old palaces crumble together along the banks of the river, looming over, and entwining with the Ghats, which serve as gathering places for everyone. Only at the hottest time of day are they lightly populated, and even then, the beggars, chai sellers, tourists, cows, and dogs are in attendance. Varanasi never sleeps.

My arrival from Delhi on the new high speed train, mid afternoon, heat of the day, proved to be non problematic.  I realized right away that I was in a different station than last year, but I was not worried about getting to my hotel. I have come to rely on my faith and sense of well being, and sure enough, an older man came quietly up and asked if I needed a ride. I gave him a piece of paper on which I had written the name of the place I was staying, he nodded, said he knew it and would take me there. "How much?" "350 rupees" A fair price for a local, this wins my trust immediately. I followed him through the crush, the heat outside the station took on a dimension of its own, and the tuk tuk with plastic covered seats was like a sauna. Off we lurched into the cacophony, the energy that is unique to this city. Horns blaring, people yelling, loud music, all manner of vehicles competing for space to move in any direction. My driver yells at an old bicyclist, almost hits someone, loudly berates a clump of walking children. The ride is very rough, my butt bangs repeatedly on the seat, as I grip my camera bag, make sure my backpack does not go flying out of the doorway. Sensory overloaded in every way, the ride physically invasive, loud, visually chaotic, the smells overpowering, in an assault so complete and alive, I realize that I am incredibly happy. This is the India of my dreams.

Each morning at 5:30, I climb the unopened gate. It's too early for the proprietor. I tiptoe past his sleeping self, gently hoist myself up and over with almost no noise. The early coolness is refreshing to me, but the few locals are wrapped head to foot, swathed in heavy scarf. I pick my way through the most difficult section, avoiding moving objects, mounds of shit, garbage, burning piles of leaves. Men sit at a stand drinking chai, reading the paper, talking quietly. Dogs howl, chickens flap, a small child drags a goat by a rope. Bicycles and quiet motor bikes sneak up on me, sometimes barely avoiding a sideswipe. In my unsteady self, halting abruptly is an art, a necessity. My exterior awareness is demanded in a uniquely present flow of energy, like I have another as yet undiscovered sense, an ability to "see" 360 degrees. Not normal vision, more like prescience, intuition, my body takes on a weightless glide that keeps me from harm. Vendors shout from laden carts, children yell "hello!", and keep it up until I respond. One very small one gleefully reaches out to touch my hand, and laughs in excitement when I swipe fingers. A shrine is tended each morning by a group of small women who light incense and tiny lamps at the base of a large tree. Encroached by both road and building, it has somehow survived, limbs cut away from the trunk, holes for candles and flowers hacked into the side, a meager top still branching, still flowering in this time, another Spring. A cow mourns loudly, and often. The dust stirs in a wind that jumps over the wall along the river. Shadows are being born in yet another rising sun. Assi Ghat harbors the faithful in the morning ceremony that comes to a close just as the sun shows itself across the Ganges. The older people stand and pray, covering themselves with fire and smoke, go along their way. A gentle ritual, it is difficult to ignore, no matter who you are. Lemon chai sellers labor with cups and a giant kettle, set atop a brazier. I am offered a boat ride countless times. A hundred people spread out on carpets, participate in yoga breathing and asanas led by a Brahmin, onstage, through a microphone.  Music, a sitar and tabla, enfold the already dense atmosphere with sound that transports; I am in another century. I close my eyes, and breathe.

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What a wave looks like...

I waded into the gentle surf at the boulder end of the beach with the intention of photographing just the surface of the water, close, abstract. I watched the incoming waves very carefully, so as not to put the camera in danger. But waves will get you. This one slapped the camera mid exposure. I tried not to panic, got out to dry it off. It's not weather sealed. I got mad at myself for being careless, but there was nothing I could do. The lens stopped working, the camera was fine. I went back later to my hut and tried to see if there was a solution, but no, I had to accept that I ruined my only 28mm focal length. I chalked it up to a very expensive lesson, but refused to let it get me down. It was on my birthday.
I wrapped it up, put it in the camera bag, went on about my work. A couple of days later I pulled it out, put it on both cameras just to see, and it has worked just fine ever since. Lucky me. Lesson learned, and I got an interesting sequence of it happening as well. All in all, it was for the best.

Goa and Hampi

 This is the south end of Agonda. If  you look closely on the right you will see the woman I posted about last time.

Sunset, Agonda

The ruins of Hampi, in Karnataka, India, still embody the magnificence of the last great Hindu kingdom in South India, despite the fact that the Muslims sacked it over four centuries ago. My arrival, at dawn one early March morning, was not only greeted by the sun, but also by pilgrims singing praises in the Temple, cows loitering in the common parking areas, and monkeys, eating bananas. Incense and smoky fires create an atmosphere made even more mysterious by the crumbling architecture; the royal complexes, temples, shrines, and pillared halls. Nestled amid boulders that form a natural continuation of the structures themselves, the ingeniously designed layout covers over 16 square miles. My intention to climb to an honored destination in time to witness the sunrise is part of the quintessential photographer's dream. We are always chasing light.

I am stilled drugged from sleep; my rushed coffee and 20-minute car ride have done nothing to prepare me for this. I shove myself forward and up, over cut blocks of granite that are deceptively slippery and of such erratic height that I have to lean forward and pounce. The urgent appointment with the sun blots out any hesitation; I plummet on. My reward upon finally reaching the top is a 360-degree view of a significant portion of the ruins, including a lake, the river, rice fields and the main Virupakshya Temple, a glowing limestone beacon far below. Much to my relief, the top is flat, and accommodates about 20 people, mostly Westerners, young, dressed in the typical fashion of part Indian, part hippie. A young local is selling chai, doling it out in crushed plastic cups. There are places to sit near the edge, no one is talking. When the sun peeps out from behind a rock mount, we watch in a reverent silence for 20 minutes.

The hills are covered in a smoky haze that seeps horizontally. Some of it seems impenetrable, a soggy yellowish blanket that weighs itself down between the boulders. The edges then break apart in diaphanous waves that bounce the light, revealing copses of palm trees, rice fields an impossible green in this sultry atmosphere. The sun is bloody neon, an entity worthy of all possible worship from human millennium. Imbued with substantiality, it rises fast, changing bright reds to orange gold that skims the rock and temples, leaving the lower ground a dusty indigo that hints of shape and form, not substance.  The world is floating in layers of deep blue/grey, blue green, subdued yellow, burnished as if from a pile of still vital coals. The wind is fresh, the silence complete.

I have my photos, so I am content to be still, cross-legged and peaceful in the warming air. I have plans and destinations for the rest of the morning, but here in the quiet camaraderie of those who climbed, I am content. If I do nothing else today, I have this.

Then I have to climb back down.

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GOA

For the last few days I have been staying in a little beach hut in Agonda, Goa - bed, mosquito net, bathroom and shower with on demand hot water, Internet (spotty)- in short, all the comforts one could ask for, particularly in the middle of nowhere. I did not bring the laptop, so I won't include photos this time. Written each morning, the following are random thoughts and observations...

The ocean is a blue I have never seen - an indigo/teal, tinged with a lighter green closer to the shore. I'm facing West, so the early morning light is making its way from behind me. Still soft, becoming more brilliant, lighting up the yellow sand, it promises a tropical day ahead. Aside from countless little booths selling clothes, jewelry, leather, instruments, incense, perfume, boat trips, etc there is little to see without renting a scooter. Being here is enough.

Pariah dogs patrol the beach, barking at some criteria, chasing each other, a nuisance. Some attach to various guests, following them, resting in their shade.

The horizon is hazy, a color slightly lighter than the ocean, the water line a darker seam along the edge of the sky. No shells, no seabirds. So calm it looks like a painting. Fingers of land probe the distance on both sides of this beach, creating a half bowl. They are green and brown, not jungle, not palm trees, but cascading in layers, color fading into space.  A fishing boat is suspended, barely nodding. The raucous voice of a dusty black crow- primordial, as though the world has just begun.The wind has come again. Non existent this morning, now a heady presence that channels sea, cooking, smoke, incense. My awareness is on gentle overload. Tourist talk, a language I can't hear or understand, strangely soothing, like classical music in the background.

Now mid day the ocean is a bright teal blue, white capped, less compelling in its restlessness. A clear cirrused sky has given over to light blue, a fuzzy baby blanket. Midges congregate and swirl in a beam of sun breaking through foliage. Coconut palms, hibiscus, bird of paradise and scraggly pine vie for space and nourishment in the sand. The sky is now waves breaking upside down. Birds industriously haul material for building or repair. Two French girls cavort on their little porch with iPhones, their generous bodies covered in long dresses, bare feet, curly hair somewhat tamed in buns. Their enthusiasm is infectious.

The Arabian Sea. Stretched between this subcontinent and Africa, it reaches up into Oman, the Persian Gulf. Calm and clear, very salty, I can see the bottom in a depth over my head. The sand is clean and filled with ridges and the occasional trough that I bounce in and out of, swaying in the gentle waves. A pleasantly cool temperature at first, the water turns silky and warm once I acclimate. Clumsy and tottering on land, I become a less awkward sea creature. The rise and fall makes me keenly aware of the physical, a place I can live in for the moment.

At the south end of this little bowled beach there are big boulders, in and out of the water, craggy with barnacles and slippery with sand from human feet. Monolithic, they form a little crescent that harbors a set of outriggers, brightly painted with names.
There is a thin muscular woman, older than me, with long gloriously curly hair. She stands in the meager surf, dancing a strange ritual, complete with ablutions that don't include getting her hair wet. She completes her activities, climbs aboard a large flat topped rock, stretches out.

An older man, perhaps European, builds a space each late afternoon, chopsticks for boundaries, then creates a mandala in the hard sand. I passed him yesterday, putting on the finishing touches. When I wander by later, a wave has taken half of his design. He obviously is performing some kind of devotion, reverent in his sincerity. He doesn't want his picture taken, and I find this out after I have already photographed him, bent over, perfecting one edge of the mandala. The quiet snick of the shutter is drowned in the noisy surf, and he hadn't noticed me. The guilt of ignoring my ethics attacks me for a second, and I am in, yet again, some kind of moral quandary. I should have asked first.

A boat far from shore floats on a path of blinding silver light. It is so black, so inundated, that it's structure dissolves, a mirage under the perfect sun. It glides out of the onslaught, regains a familiar form. I watched a man pulling out a cast net. He trundles it up on the sand and shakes free the meager amount of little fish he managed to snare. They flop about weakly, he nudges one back into the general pile. I am mildly disgusted at such a poor showing. If the net were bursting, perhaps it would have been a worthy sacrifice, but it seems a waste; maybe one meal for one person....but then, what do I know? I hope he is feeding them to his kids for breakfast. I raise the camera, then lose enthusiasm. I realize I am being judgmental, and move on.

Another perfect morning. The ocean is flat, a slightly darker shade than the sky. The headlands, misty, smoky, stretch out, and disappear. The horizon is a magical line, beckoning with promise and mystery. It has always been so. An embodiment of countless dreams, it has an unusual power, playing upon the imagination and hope of mankind, and has, since conscious thought, created a lust for conquest of the unknown. We stare, seeking solace, regain our equilibrium, kindle passions dormant, waiting for the spark that frees us from fear. Stable and unchanging, it tips us over the edge of ourselves, drawing from us reserves of as yet unregistered courage, to explore, change, grow, recognize.

 I sleep deeply, heavy in my body, which flies away in dreams. I am inhabited.

India!

Ok, I made it finally, after some delay... Now back in Delhi, I have been to the Khumbh Mela and will post photos when I can get some editing done. I am not traveling with the laptop, but leaving it here in Delhi with my amazing hosts. I am using this city as a base, and coming back periodically to rest and work.
One foggy morning at about 6 am, I went out along the Yarmuna River and this young boy wanted his photo taken. Such shy dignity, and a heart breaking smile when he saw his picture. This trip, as with the last one, I find the people just lovely. Americans could learn some friendliness and caring from them, no matter what economic background. I am so privileged... and alive.

Mary Oliver

My good friend, Paula Lambert texted me this morning,; ”Mary Oliver has passed”.  Immediately I felt the kind of sadness that one can only experience when hearing of the death of a hero; someone who you never knew, but who shaped you profoundly in some way that made a difference in how you experience your life. I have been following her work since 1983, keeping up with books published, life events that were part of public knowledge, and upon occasion, wandering on a Provincetown beach, wishing that by some miracle she would be out walking too.

I met Mary Oliver when I was junior at Ohio University. She was brought in by the English Department to do a reading, and at that point I had never heard of her. I noticed a flyer in the hallway of one of the buildings, decided to go. Something told me to go. The evening of the reading, I was surprised to find the auditorium filled in a hushed appreciation, and when she came out on the stage, dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans, greying hair, big glasses, I was smitten. Her resonant voice emphasized the care and thoughtfulness of the words she had written, and gently conveyed the power of her realizations. She read from 12 Moons, read from American Primitive, which won the Pulitzer the next year. My 21 year old self had not yet had an opportunity to realize just how impactful a poetry reading could be, despite my having been the poetry magazine editor at a different college the year before. Something snapped inside, spreading a  molten grace, a passion that took me by surprise. The words, the person who could bring forth such epiphany… how can this become so alive, where had I been before? After the reading there was an announcement that all were invited to a reception at an English Professor’s house, and I convinced one of my housemates to go with me. I was not finished with this…night. We walked in the cold, neither of us had a car, and it turned into a sort of pilgrimage for me. I was determined to make it there, to stand next to this woman who expressed something burning wildly within me.

When we reached the house, we politely knocked on the door, and were greeted by a student who motioned us inside, and there she was; Mary Oliver.  She looked over at my friend and I and took a couple of steps toward us, saying hello, and who are you, what do you study?  I replied that we were art students, photographers, and she went very still, and looked at me and said “ You mean you’re not English majors?” “And you came all this way?” When I confirmed this, she was delighted, just delighted, and started asking me about myself, and what I was interested in, Just Totally Engaged, until the ring of people around us grew with polite impatience. She then reached out, took my hand, and said how pleased she was to have met, thanked me for coming. 

A couple of years later I spent a Sunday afternoon sitting in my open window, reading the newly published  “Dreamwork”, which grabbed me in the same way her other work had, and I obsessively carried the book everywhere. It was as though I could not bear to be apart from it, and yet I knew there was something contained in the whole of it that I was missing. By this time I was 25, and so unhappy, that I needed to change my life. The poems gave me the courage. Ten years later, I got a job, teaching photography, at Sweet Briar College, where Mary had taught poetry for 11 years or so. I missed her by one semester. When I read  “White Pine”, I knew she had written it during her Sweet Briar tenure. I made discoveries about the campus and environs through what she had written. I stood under the Fletcher Oak, and imagined her standing there, imagined her wandering around in the exact places, then going home to write in the house that I was living next door to. I was in love, and free, living the way I had always wanted, so I decided to send her one of my photographs. She was at Bennington College at the time, and I found an address, (pre internet, by the way), and sent off my package with a note.  A couple of weeks later, there was a letter, typed, but signed in fountain pen ink. She thanked me for the image, spoke of it in “all its lush beauty”, and wished me well in my budding career. I have that letter, still. It is a prized possession. 

Some years later, I decided to take off a year from image making and attend the poetry workshop classes taught by the SBC Poet in Residence, Constance Merritt. I loved the class, spent a great deal of time on the readings, and wrote all the poetry assignments for that year, 2003/04. A time came when the class was asked to write poetry in the style of one of the writers we had studied, and, of course, I chose Mary Oliver.

                                              

                                  

                                      

A Few Things I Must Say

 

A field beyond the tree line

cradles a flock of Canada geese.

I watched them honking down the sky,

a throat of horns;

wind instruments in a V formation.

Is it instinct, or just what they

like to do?

The heads that move in one direction,

then another,

do not see me,

but they must feel me,

a pale glow of fire,

friendly, in the next field.

How is it then,

that I am separate from other light?

Happiness,

more difficult than pain,

taught me to live

an edge of paradox;

it’s brutal, slamming against

my heart,

a revelation.

And what is a paradox for,

but to teach acceptance?

The geese rise,

a voice of one

that flings the treetops against the sky,

gathering the world's beauty in

uncrafted song.

And I thought I would die then,

and come for you,

and if I did,

would you come with me?

Mary Oliver died today.

 A light has transferred itself to another realm, another space where an earth speaks in root wrangle, calling upon us to change our lives, giving us the courage to do so.

In many ways, subtle and mysterious, she saved my life. What she wrote, penetrated into the darkest points, told me that yes I could, yes.

Poetry

By

Mary Oliver

The Journey

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.